One More Kiss
by NekoMushi
Summary: Alfred wanted to love Arthur in every way possible, despite the latter's reluctance to his affections. He only wished for one more kiss...and perhaps another one after that. Rating will be changed for future chapters. Cover image by akitokun1.
1. First Kisses

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

**Disclaimer;**

_Sadly, I do not own Hetalia nor do I own any of the characters in Hetalia either. This applies to future chapters as well.  
I do not own the cover image – it was drawn by akitokun1 on DeviantArt._

_Enjoy!~_

**...xXx…xXx…xXx…**

"_Never close your lips to those whom you have already opened your heart."_

-Charles Dickens

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

**Prologue  
First Kisses**

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

**1564**

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

First kisses were, allegedly, important messages of both intimacy and a loss of innocence. Some viewed them as a half-open door, ajar and awaiting on its hinges to unveil the wondrous world beyond. Others saw them as a mountain to climb, a challenge that, once they conquered, they could marvel at a spectacular view as their prize – or, in cases of kissing, the fact that they'd accomplished something big and received a few ounces of self-satisfaction, as well as a contented partner. A few people saw their first kiss as an enemy, something large and looming, swathed in shadows and just waiting to haul them into darkness. They shied away, terrified, until somebody gentle would plant a tender touch to their mouth that they couldn't resist or despise. Either way, somebody's first kiss, whether it was given to them, stolen from them or claimed by them, was a big deal that involved a lot of worrying and relationship-related stress.

When was the right time to do it? How should it be done? Would it be too soon, or too late?

Why people made such big fusses about them, Alfred never knew. He was perfectly happy in the knowing that he'd never kissed, or been kissed, by anybody. He was, after all, only young and he had the rest of his life to explore the many levels of both affectionate and ravenous kissing and, considering he was a young colony only born about a hundred years ago, it was guaranteed that he was going to live a very, _very _long time. Therefore, he'd have a wagonload of years to find the perfect opportunity to lean in and give somebody that vital peck, or allow somebody special to embrace his mouth in a sweet gesture that would ultimately label him as a 'kissed' individual. Too bad that he didn't _quite _understand the significance of different types of kissing.

Alfred, more commonly known as America, dearly loved his adoptive older brother. Having met him way back in 1492, when the strange white people had buried the hulls of their ships into the eastern coast's golden sand banks, he'd instantly forged an unbreakable connection with Arthur, partly because he was immensely curious about all of the phenomena that the more experienced nation had brought with him, as well as the fact that he had the same pale skin and fair hair as he, and partly because of the indescribable warmth that he'd immediately been engulfed in upon allowing himself to be held in those arms. There was no limit to how much Alfred adored Arthur and everything about him, from his softly curving smile and the zealousness behind his glittering gemstone eyes. Hence why he was sprinting as fast as he could to the docks, a stupendously large grin plastered to his maw as he called out a familiar name over and over again.

"Arthur! Arthur!"

The day was fine, sunshine rippling off of his hair as he ran, dashing between the locals. Women stared wistfully at him as he ran, blinking and muttering either subdued curses at his boundless energy or positive comments about how he was growing rapidly to become the country that they needed him to be. His feet scuffed upon the ground, leaving a trail of dust in their wake as he bolted forwards, eyes vivid and rippling like the ocean blue. He had never run so fast before and he mentally swore that he was flying, just like in his dreams, where he soared high up in the ether, across the sea towards the isles of Great Britain, where he knew he'd find his brother waiting for him. He'd dressed especially for the day that he knew Arthur arrived, opting to wear the best clothes that he'd been able to scavenge in the monstrous house that he'd been banished to live alone in, save for his servants and maids.

The long sleeved shirt and dun-coloured waistcoat that he'd tugged on in his haste were at least two sizes too big, drooping over his small frame and trailing down past his thighs. Luckily, he'd managed to find a suitable belt to wrap around his waist in order to secure his breeches and ensure that they didn't slip down his legs as he ran. He'd pulled on a pair of black socks, tugging them up until they were just below his knees and finished his smart attire with his usual, slightly worn-out brown shoes, complete with various scuff-marks and a few scratches and scrapes pockmarking the leather. All that he could hope was that Arthur would be glad that he'd be wearing the clothes that he'd personally given to him the last time he'd visited.

Alfred never stopped for breath, not even when he saw the white sails and the red crossed flag rising up on the skyline and pushed his muscles to the limit as he propelled himself up towards the crest of the hill. His breathing was slightly erratic, escaping in ragged breaths, but he couldn't find the capacity in his mind to care. All that mattered at that moment was that he was going to see Arthur again, after countless hours of staying up all night and staring at the myriads of glowing stars above and hoping, wishing, _praying _that he'd come back across the Atlantic to see him again. He sorely missed him. Those fathomless eyes, filled to the brim with warmth so tender that Alfred could literally smother himself in it and fall into a deep slumber. That gentle smile, a silent motion of pure happiness that filled his stomach with fluttering butterflies and an unearthly sensation of vertigo, like his whole world had been turned upside down.

The second that he reached the peak of the hill, he halted, the sight as breath-taking as ever. A vast expanse of rolling waves, foaming slightly and sparkling, not unlike a sheet of sapphires, under the midday sunlight stretched outwards across Alfred's vision, looking as though it reached out to every corner of the world and beyond. He could only stare, awestruck as he always was, his own cerulean irises reflecting the deep aqua of the ocean and the distant sky, blending into the horizon until he was unsure whether the sea really existed, or if he was just looking out over the edge of the Earth. The only thing that reminded him of where he was and wrenched him from his state of momentary wonder, were the billowing white sails of a monstrous, wooden ship, docked in the harbour as a collection of crates and barrels were being offloaded from its deck via a long, sloping ramp. Bulky men rolled and hauled various implements from inside as well, most shirtless as they wrapped handkerchiefs around their foreheads to stem their perspiration.

Alfred barely had time to register what they were doing as he made his own way down the hill, being careful not to trip and sully his smart outfit, as he'd spotted something far more interesting. At he drew closer to the man, quite lean and with a mess of unruly, straw-coloured locks situated on top of his head, he began to really believe what his eyes were telling him. There, clad in a long tawny tunic with navy breeches was the personification of England, standing with his regularly sophisticated deportment as he appeared to be checking over a wrinkled piece of parchment with an expression of placid neutrality. Just the spectacle of him was enough to evoke a burst of elation in Alfred's chest, and before he knew it, he was running headlong down the steepest part of the hill, even faster than before, yelling out at the top of his lungs.

"Arthur! _Arthur_!"

Before the older nation had enough time to properly turn and find out just who was calling his name out so loudly, he'd been tackled quite forcefully in the side by the little bundle of vigour, the force of the impact so great that it took all of the poise he could muster not to topple over into the sand. Barely registering what had just happened, he glanced down at a muddle of goldenrod hair, belonging to the short boy who had just rammed into him and who was currently hugging his waist so tight that he doubted he'd ever be able to let go. He immediately recognised the owner of the thick locks (including that one cowlick that utterly refused to stay down not matter how many times it was combed) and a wide smile broke out across his face. Forgetting the parchment that had slipped from his fingers earlier in his surprise and lay amongst the grains of sand by his feet, Arthur bent down and hoisted the boy up until he'd settled him in a comfortable position in his arms and allowed a lenient grin to grace his juvenile face.

"Alfred!" he cried out joyously, pleasure etched into every groove on his face as he held said boy close to him, his laughter resembling wind chimes.

"I missed you!" he replied, burying his face into the crook of Arthur's neck, unable to hide how giddy he was in his delight at seeing his older brother after so long. It was after the jubilance had died down to a feeling of everlasting contentment that settled deep in both of the boys' stomachs and the location had changed from the bustling coastline to quiet meadows of long grass that swayed in unison, swept by an almost non-existent breeze, when Alfred stole his first kiss.

They walked side by side, the dying sun's final rays bleeding through the sky, merging into a concoction of wonderful sunset colours. Following a brief lunch and numerous words exchanged between them about what they'd missed without each other's company, they decided to seize the rest of the pleasant weather by immersing themselves on a long walk through the countryside. Alfred grasped Arthur hand with fervour, unwilling to let go for anything, even when they passed a whole herd of bison roaming the plains and bellowing at each other as they grazed. From then on, the duo walked in blissful silence, just glad for the companionship. Every now and then, Arthur would glance down at the beaming child, his vivid blue eyes glowing ardently as he drunk in their surroundings, and spread his mouth into a smile of his own.

Finally, they stopped, the fields coming to an end at the base of a moderate slope which they'd clambered upwards. Their destination immediately brought back jolts of nostalgia, a gnarled oak tree overlooking as the two of them settled down amongst its twisting roots. Hazy sunlight filtered through the leaves, adding an unnaturally beautiful sheen to Arthur's eyes, yet he only stared out across the farmland with an expression of fondness, recalling the first time he and Alfred went for a walk together. Back then the boy had been smaller, dressed only in a silken white tunic and a blue bow fastened at his neck, and they'd halted at the foot of that very same oak tree, where Arthur had told him all sorts of magical tales about princes and princesses, pirates and mermaids, kings and castles…..it had been like a fairytale. It was _still _like a fairytale.

"Arthur?" At the sound of his name, the older nation turned, his gaze sweeping over to Alfred, comfortably sat in his lap. He had an obscure twinkle in his eyes, almost as though he were expecting something. "Can you tell me a story?"

From the passion blazing behind his irises and the enthusiasm rippling through his hopeful grin, he found it impossible to refuse, and just chuckled light-heartedly as he drew the child closer to himself. Running slender fingers through his hair, marvelling silently at how imperfectly it fell, yet how much more adorable it made the boy look, Arthur leaned back into the bark of the oak tree, allowing Alfred to rest his head on his chest . He listened avidly to his heartbeat, noting the thumps and thrums, and instantly relaxed into his older brother, cushioned by both his torso and his loving arms.

"'_Bendigeidfran, son of Llŷr, was chosen King of the Island of Britain, which was called 'the Island of the Mighty'; and he was crowned in London. One afternoon, he was in Harlech –'" _

He recited each line like a poem, never missing a beat or mispronouncing any of the long, Celtic names. Images of great kings entered his mind, life being breathed into them by the words of the story. He pictured a young, beautiful maiden, with long white hair and a great giant of a man with hulking muscles and thick, auburn hair. Arthur's voice was soft as he described each one in full detail, and combined with the fingers running smoothly over his head, Alfred could slowly feel his eyelids grow heavy, as though they were weighed down by lead. Lulled by the sweetness and sincerity in Arthur's voice and cocooned by his mysteriously calming dialect, he was soon breathing heavily, his eyes fluttering closed as he slumped across the Brit's body.

"'_- the memory of their lord Bendigeidfran was most painful of all. And from that time they could not remain there, but set out for London taking the head with them. At last they reached London and they buried the head in the White Hill –_' hm?"

Arthur paused, his gaze flickering down to the sleep form of Alfred against his chest. It was rather endearing, his head nuzzled into his ribcage as his mouth hung open slightly and the sound of air passing through his parted lips with every breath interrupted the silence. He wasn't snoring, per say, and instead just breathing quite heavily in such a manner that was so irresistibly cute that Arthur couldn't help but smile. He decided to lay there for a few moments longer, his hand still massaging Alfred's locks, until he risked a look at the rapidly darkening sky. A few stars dared to shine, speckling the deep violent haze above with light. Beautiful and entrancing, but Arthur did have more important things to attend to, such as the dozing child on his body. He could probably carry him back if he didn't rouse him from his slumber. However, he was not so fortunate, and cursed inwardly as the boy stirred from his carelessness in trying to move him, and sat up, his eyes bleary as he stared uncertainly ahead.

"I'm sorry," Arthur murmured gently. "Did I wake you?"

Alfred could only respond with a wide yawn.  
"I wasn't asleep," he mumbled indignantly. The was only a short chuckle in response to that and another bout of movement as the elder scooped the younger up in his arms, resting him against his shoulder so that they were eye level. And what happened next was something that neither of them would forget for a long, long time.

At first, Arthur just thought that the boy had been dazed, so dazed that he'd started to tip his head forwards to his shoulder to fall back into a deeper sleep. But, he was wrong, for he soon found, by an inexplicable force, that something incredibly soft was pressed against his maw. Alfred's lips touched his brain as they locked onto his mouth, as though they were a vehicle of some vague speech and between them he felt an unknown and timid pressure, darker than the swoon of sin, weaker than sound or odour. It was like blissful oblivion had swamped over the two of them, Arthur's eyes widening as his brain finally started to click into place.

Alfred was kissing him. Alfred was _kissing him_.

There was nothing to it, really. The boy broke away after a collection of seconds had passed, his eyelids pulling backwards to reveal two sparkling eyes as his mouth stretched into an impish grin. Arthur could only stare, stupefied, as he lightly fingered his lower lip with two of his digits, feeling along the sensitive skin. It wasn't that he'd never been kissed before, no…but, it was the fact that _Alfred _– his little _brother _– had just pressed his mouth to his in a chaste connection, so innocent and virtuous that he hesitated to even call it a kiss.

"...uhm…Alfred…?"

"That was a kiss, right?" he interrupted thoughtfully. "Did I do it right?"

Arthur frowned. "Yes. Alfred, why did you just kiss me?"

"That's how people show that they love each other. And I love you, Arthur!" The child beamed, his incorruptibility so untarnished and unfathomable that Arthur could scarcely believe that he didn't understand the severity of his actions. In fact, he couldn't even find the heart in himself to scold the boy, nor could he try to reprimand him. Instead, he just furrowed his brow and scowled, searching for the correct words to say.

"I…Alfred." The serious finality in his tone caught his brother off guard. "There are different _types _of love."

The child perked up, his curiosity piqued. "Really?"

"Yes. A kiss on the lips signifies romantic love…"

"Romantic…?"

Arthur sighed heavily. Explaining how various people loved each other was going to be a lot harder than he originally thought. "Romantic love is between a couple. Such as, a man and a woman together. You see couples all of the time, yes?" Of course, that wasn't _entirely _true, but the Brit rigorously doubted that the boy would've ever seen an intimate relationship between two men or two women on the street. Of course, pairings of those types were unheard of between humans, and quite rare between nations, even those who were married through political or economic purposes. Nonetheless, Alfred thought long and hard before answering.

"Yes, but –"

Arthur cut across him before he could elaborate. "So there you have it. We are not a couple, so we don't kiss on the lips, okay?" By this time, he'd overcome his brief shock and started to walk, supporting the boy with both of his arms as he worked his way back through the long grass and towards the manor house where he'd be living with him for a couple of weeks.  
Alfred looked uncertainly at his older brother, before mumbling in agreement and resting his chin on his shoulder, staring wistfully at the gradually receding oak tree. The place where he'd had his very first kiss. It belonged to Arthur, and for that he was happy.

However, he silently made his own new goal, starting to fade out of consciousness from the gentle cradling movements that began to rock him back to sleep. He was determined to love Arthur in every way, whether the Brit liked it or not. As for the kiss they'd shared underneath the watchful leaves of the oak tree…

…it would be the first of many.

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

_**A/N:**_

_This story is based off of a US/UK kiss meme I saw on DeviantArt by JustTheThing, meaning there will be about 22 short drabbles following this prologue. I'm not sure when they'll be published, but I'll work on them when I feel like it. I just felt in a fluffy mood today so I decided to write a quick snippet of what might happen if Colonial!America kissed Britain on the lips._

_The story that Britain was telling was a tale from the Mabinogion, about Brawnwen and Bendigeidfran. For those of you who don't know, they're Welsh legends and I have a little book containing three stories. _

_The rating of this fic will be subject to change as we get closer to the more intimate types of kissing e.g on the waist, stomach, inner thigh etc. _

_And finally for their ages! Alfred has the appearance and mind of an eight-year-old boy in this, whereas I imagine Britain would be around sixteen-years-old. They call each other by their human names because they find it's more comfortable. As they get older, that might change though._

_Please leave a review! I'd really appreciate it!_

_~ NekoMushi_


	2. Adoration

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

"_Children don't remember what you try to teach them. They remember what you are."_

-Jim Henson, _It's Not Easy Being Green: And Other Things to Consider_

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

**Chapter I  
Adoration**

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

**1580**

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

The shadows were long and looming, following him wherever he dared to set foot in the great mansion, their grotesque, talon-like fingers curling along the walls and reaching towards the hem of his night gown. Rain pounded harshly against the glass of every window, an unwanted stranger in the darkness. The absence of silence would've been comforting if it weren't for the explosive thunder and flashes of forked lightning raking the sky, illuminating every corner, cranny and nook of the corridor where the little boy stumbled. The only thing he clasped was the soft fabric of his frock, his knuckles bleached white from his frightfully tight grip.

The moon was veiled in a cocoon of storm clouds and the wind howled against the windows, bringing trees and branches to life. The boy stared, his eyes wide with pure terror, and he shrunk back into a crevice, gulps and sobs escaping from his mouth. He hated thunder storms, he really did, and they were possibly the only thing that could chase him from his bedroom in search of reprieve and solace. A cry slid through his parted lips, choked and pathetic amongst the ominously creaking floorboards and immediately drowned out by the screeching gales.

This continued for a while, the small boy huddled in the corner of the corridor as white fire seared through the hallways, screaming fitfully every time the silhouetted claws of a tree outside threatened to snatch him. He was completely and utterly terrified, unwilling to move from his spot despite the obvious distress that the tempest outside was bringing him. Caught up in his own nightmare, huddled in the tear-stained material of his sleeping garments, he barely noticed the rapid footsteps clunking across the floorboards to his position.

It was only when something gently touched his hair and called out his name, just loud enough for him to hear over the crash of the thunder outside, did he become conscious of the presence of some other being in the room. In spite of his panic, his sanity was not so far gone that he couldn't distinguish the man in front of him, kneeling down with both hands outstretched, one stroking his hair in a consoling gesture whilst the other invited him to move closer, perhaps into a hug.

"It's alright, Alfred," a pacifying voice murmured. "I'm here now."

Alfred could not resist burying himself in his guardian's chest, the wretched hiccups that jolted through his body gradually growing in volume and ferocity until the sounds he were emitting were akin to the external windstorm. He struggled to take deep breaths and instead shuddered, a sharpness erupting throughout his whole form and he reached his short arms out, searching for anything to grasp. The sobs that reverberated down the hall, ricocheting off the walls, were vehement and emotionally draining for both of the nations.

Arthur found that the position he'd managed to settle himself in was rather awkward; he crouched, rather uncomfortably, resting on one knee as the other jutted out slightly, acting as a balancing component for the crying child whom he was trying to mollify. He'd been drawn from reading one of his favourite medieval tales by the sounds of wailing in between the crashes of thunder, and immediately left his bed to discover Alfred – cheerful, loving, boisterous Alfred – cowering in the passageway by his chambers.

He had to admit that he'd felt an undeniably strong urge to rush to the boy and hold him close, which was exactly what he was doing now, massaging small circles into his back. As he rocked the child back and forth, attempting to placate him with soft words and caresses, he wondered vaguely if this happened every time a thunderstorm struck America's eastern coast. The very thought caused a frown to forge itself on his face. He was supposed to be leaving for Britain tomorrow, yet he doubted his own actions, wondering if it would be better for him to stay instead.

_Don't be stupid, _Arthur chided himself. _Your work is more important than this. _More important than the wellbeing of his colonies? He didn't particularly want to admit that to himself as he found it easier to confess that he wanted to protect Alfred, to nurture and cherish him rather than rush back to his homeland. Then again, there were always going to be more pressing matters at hand, such as the tensions arising between Spain and Portugal, and the continuation of the Dutch Republic's revolt, hence why Arthur couldn't afford to spend too much time visiting and strengthening colonies anymore.

His thought track trundled to a halt after he realized that Alfred's wails had started to die down, fading to low, lengthened whimpers, and that the child's grip on his underclothes was no longer ravenous, searching desperately for both human contact and succour, but instead reduced to a meek hug that sought just general warmth and attention. Arthur slowly unwound the boy's arms from his abdomen, unsettling the position that his head had found nuzzled into the crook of his neck, and leaned over to wipe the tears from his cheeks.

He'd never really been able to offer support to anyone before, but just the sight of Alfred's dampened face and stupefied gaze was enough to soften his heart as well as his eyes. There must've been something that the boy saw in his expression, for he noticeably calmed, his shoulders slumping slightly as he started to sniffle, in spite of the storm still raging outside.

Arthur needn't express any words, since he couldn't find any, and instead just bundled the boy into his arms, held him up to his shoulders and hummed the same tunes that his brothers used to sing to him when he was young and afraid as he walked back to his bedroom. Fear wasn't something too difficult for him to comprehend. He'd been frightened when he'd been younger, and it seemed that nothing had changed, for the child seated in his arms was just as scared as he'd been all those hundreds of years ago.

Though the lightning still flickered like a snake's flaming tongue and the thunder still bellowed in the night outside, Alfred found that he wasn't so terrified anymore, and instead focused all of his attention on the young man who'd chased all of the demons away. Arthur seemed completely oblivious to all of the power he held as he walked across the bannister towards his own room. The talons that had earlier reached across the floorboards to drag Alfred away to a distant, hellish realm were gone, scuttling back into the darkest crevices where they wouldn't be found until the next time a thunderstorm rolled in.

By the time they'd made it back to the room where Arthur slept, all of the satanic manifestations had disappeared, fading away just as the noises and flashes had. Thick curtains drawn across the windows blocked the view of the outside world and a flickering candle on the desk bathed the chamber in a warmer, friendlier light. Here, Alfred felt completely protected and at peace, especially as he was still cradled in Arthur's arms. The older threw off the covers of his duvet and flopped down on his back, allowing the boy the luxury of lying, sprawled across his chest instead of sinking into the softness of the mattress, of which Arthur was sure he would get lost in.

His book lay forgotten on the bedside table as he just lay there, staring at the intricately decorated canvas above, a neutral expression plastered on his face. He allowed his mind to wander slightly, roaming back across the ocean to Europe's pressures, whilst his younger brother listened intently to both the subtlety of his heartbeat beneath his cotton night clothes and his deepened breathing techniques, signalling that he was close to dropping off to sleep.

"Arthur?" His voice was surprisingly quiet due to his loud and generally positive personality, probably thanks to how raw his throat was from crying so hard.

"Hm?"

"…I love you…"

Arthur could barely supress the grin that spread across his maw, thick and sleep-induced. Although he was tired and prepared to drop into slumber any moment, he somehow managed to open his mouth wide enough to utter a reply that didn't sound as though he was mumbling. "I love you too, Alfred."

The boy paused for a moment, battling internally with himself whether he should continue with his intentions or not. Eventually, he succumbed to his target and shuffled up Arthur chest slightly before planting a quick kiss on his brother's face. To his dismay, Arthur wouldn't have felt or been able to react to it anyway, since his eyes were already closed and he was sleeping peacefully. Typical…Alfred always knew that he dropped off far too swiftly. Nonetheless, he couldn't help but feel some odd sense of satisfaction in his chest and submerged his face in Arthur's chest again, prepared to fall asleep although the remnants of the squall were still rumbling somewhere in the distant sky.

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

_**A/N:**_

_Written in the early hours of the morning. I apologise for how short and sappy this is, but I was tired. And as Saul Bellow says: "You never have to change anything you got up in the middle of the night to write." Somehow, I feel that his judgement must be slightly clouded. _

_This is set just before the Portuguese Succession, hence the "tensions arising between Spain and Portugal" and in the middle of the Eighty Years' War a.k.a the Dutch War of Independence. _

_Once again, I know this is short, and I'm sorry. I'm guessing that the next one-shot/drabble will be about the same length, but the one after that should be around 3,000 words, if not more. _

_Special thank you to PurpleLuna98 who reviewed the first chapter. Thank you very much! I swear, you must be Prussian, if you know what I mean ;) _

_A kiss on the face means adoration. _

_Thank you for reading._

_NekoMushi _


	3. Friendship and Blessing

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

"_A friend is someone who knows all about you and still loves you._"

-Elbert Hubbard

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

**Chapter II  
Friendship and Blessing**

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

**1580**

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

It was early when he awoke, his eyelids peeling back to expose his irises to the soft glow of morning flooding through a gap in the curtains. The candle settled on his bedside table had long since burned out, leaving a slumping heap of mangled wax and a drooping, blackened wick. Arthur had always been an early riser. It'd been mandatory when he was younger, to shoot down prey when it was still sluggish and groggy. As they say, 'the early bird catches the worm.' The thick drapes covering the windows revealed a small parting, hence the finger of amber that slithered across the floor and caressed the sheets.

They were dense and heavy…perhaps _too _heavy for Arthur's liking. He frowned, wanting to kick them off. Though he was grateful for the depth of his mattress that he could sink into without a second thought, the fluffiness of his pillows and viscosity of his blankets when the nights were cold, he always hated how stifling they were come morning. Nonetheless, he was too tired to shove them off of him now, so he just lay there, staring at the patterns woven on the canopy above him.

He would be leaving today, sailing back across the Atlantic to deal with issues back at home. He didn't want to leave Alfred here, but it wasn't as though he could take him on the long journey – he was only a boy! – and he'd long overstayed his welcome. The child did enjoy his presence, he knew, yet his own country needed him, what with this bloody war going on. Though he was fairly sure he wasn't in any direct danger, Antonio was known to be a nightmare as it was, and it certainly didn't help that his king was married to Arthur's queen. Everything was complicated involving the Habsburg Empire and religion, it seemed.

Arthur shifted slightly, scowling. This weight on his chest was extremely bothersome. He made a note to himself to purchase a new duvet upon his return to America. After trying to get into a more comfortable position and failing, his mind wandered back to the events of English Fury. He wasn't _delighted _as it were, yet he hadn't been there in person. He didn't really have time to attend every single battle that ever happened. Only the important few that he was sure would need his assistance, even if he was only one extra being.

"Oh, for goodness sake, this duvet never seemed so heavy before…" the personification muttered to himself, irritated. He tried to sit himself up properly so that he could push the stupid thing off, when he noticed something peeking out from under his blankets. Something soft and tufted and very familiar. It reminded him of Alfred, his hair more than anything. That sunshine hair, so bright, resembling long sweeping grass in midday fields…oh. _Oh. _The memories of the thunderstorm all flooded back in a seamless spectrum.

Alfred cowering in the corridor, bright lightening illuminating his form as he crouched and flinched away from stark shadows and the roar of thunder. He had been so frightened, so terrified, tears streaming down his cheeks as he'd wailed. One day Arthur hoped that his fear of storms would subdue and he could wake to the beauties of a dawn-lit world, speckled with dewdrops. He remembered a time when he too had been afraid, but his fears had always dissipated. Now the only thing that truly bothered him was war and its consequences. He sourly hoped that Alfred – dear, innocent little Alfred – would never experience the horrors of wartime. Goodness, the Dark Ages had been terrible enough!

Somehow, Arthur found a way to manoeuvre himself so that he was in a sitting position, shuffling in a way as not to disturb the mite curled onto his chest. Now, the colony just rested in his lap, his white blouse pooling around his feet like a dress. How chaste, how sweet, how vulnerable he looked. The empire twiddled a strand of upright hair between his fingers, and the child mumbled something inaudible in his sleep. Arthur wished more than anything that he could stay with the boy. He enjoyed Alfred's smile more than he enjoyed his own. All that remained at home was a land full of rain, poverty and depression. Why would Arthur think of going there when, if he stayed, he'd be able to bask in the glory of America and all its sunshine forever?

Nonetheless, he was a country, and forever bound to his people. He could not leave them.

With a heavy sigh squeezing between his lips, emanating right in the depths of his chest, he avidly picked Alfred up in his arms, holding his close to his shoulder and allowing his head to nestle into the crook of his neck. He decided that he would leave a letter for when the boy woke up later, even if his reading skills were in need of improvement. In the meantime, he simply walked to the drapes and pulled them back with his free hand, sunbeams fluttering in through the gap and illuminating the entire room. Arthur's heart tensed.

He loved the scenery. It never failed to take his breath away. Rolling fields of pure gold, coppery in the morning light, stretched out as far as the horizon, and he stared in awe at the sun crumbling into existence, leaving streaks of bronze, violet and burgundy across the sky. Clouds, their underbellies blooming an attractive shade of rose, drifted across the skyline. Some were great white monsters, looming over the fields like a roaring beast preparing to strike, whilst others were just dainty wisps no bigger than his thumb. It was exceedingly rare to see such a magnificent view in the confines of London. Perhaps, Arthur thought, he should take a break and visit the south-western English countryside. Somehow, the sight of the turquoise sky reminded him of that area.

Ah, he _did _miss England. However much he wished to stay and relish in the childhood that he'd never experience, his homeland pulled him back across the ocean. What a shame. However, as he heard its calling, sad and forlorn and whistling over miles of seawater, he knew that, whatever happened, he would be bound to answer.

Stifling a yawn, he turned back to the bed, not forgetting that Alfred still slept upon his shoulder, and laid him down amongst the soft quilts. He could write him a letter later, after he'd dressed and readied himself for the long journey ahead. Until then, he left the boy with a soft kiss on the forehead, his own silent way of saying good-bye without waking the child so early. His lips lingered in that spot for a few seconds, strands of hair falling into position around his chin, and he pulled the blankets up so that they cushioned the colony without choking or roasting him.

Later that day, Alfred stirred in an empty, cold bed, void of the body that he'd fallen asleep on last night. His mouth curled downwards into a pout as he inspected the bedside table for the usual letter that Arthur left before he departed. Whilst struggling to comprehend the combination of swirling, calligraphic handwriting and long words, his fingers unconsciously crept up to his brow. The skin along his temple burned slightly, as though he'd contracted fever. But the searing was concentrated in one spot, a tenderized zone that sent shivers down Alfred's spine whenever he touched it. What an odd sensation…whatever it was, it made him smile.

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

_**A/N:**_

_Eh. This is late. Sorry. I should've written this the moment I got home from Scotland…about…uhm…three weeks ago? So, this is set the morning after the thunderstorm. _

_The Hapsburg Empire was basically the unification of two families from Austria and Spain that came after the Austrian Empire. There's also some stuff to do with the Holy Roman Empire too…maybe… Considering the time this is set though, technically Spain and Austria aren't "together" – I don't think so anyway. Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong. I'm not very good when it comes to the Middle Ages. _

_Of course, Philip II of Spain was married to Mary I of England at this time. This chapter is set about five years before the Anglo-Spanish War, and eight years before Mary's death which sparked the whole religious controversy and the (failed) Spanish invasion via armada. _

_The English Fury at Mechelen was a battle during the Eighty Years' War that happened in 1580. The city of Mehelen was conquered by forces from Brussels, who were supported by English mercenaries, and brutally sacked. _

_Once again, thank you to PurpleLuna98 for reviewing the last chapter. _

_A kiss on the forehead means friendship and blessing. _

_Thank you for reading._

_-NekoMushi. _


End file.
